


in our hearts, we find our courage

by nymja



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:23:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four incidents at Octavia's wedding that prove Bellamy Blake has trouble letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in our hearts, we find our courage

**Author's Note:**

> Going with the fanon that Indra is Lincoln's mom! Lots of fluff & Monty's killer dance moves

**1.**

She’s not sure she’d call the ceremony beautiful, but there’s something honest in its simplicity. Clarke sits at Octavia’s left side, the traditional spot for a second (she assumes that is something similar to the maid of honor—as Octavia explained it, it was ancient tradition for the bride to have a backup to avenge her in case a rival clan attacked during the ceremony), with her hands balled up on her thighs and wearing her best flight jacket (the one with only two knife cuts).

This fire is just for the family and seconds, and it’s the first part of a five part venture. As they sit, with Lincoln’s mother (Indra, and Clarke is sure she has never seen a more terrifying figure for a mother-in-law), the head of the clan clears her throat and sends Octavia a small, approving nod. Clarke watches as Octavia returns it, her husband to be smiling with quiet pride to her right.

Except he’s not technically going to be a husband. The Grounders call them something else, _Kreig Ehn._ Octavia had explained it translated roughly to “the sword guarding my back,” or “partner for all my battles.” It was an oath of fidelity and commitment that warriors and healers made to each other.

And Bellamy, to Clarke’s left (the position of head of Octavia’s house), is not happy about it.

(“She’s eighteen,” he had muttered as he shed his shirt in order to replace it for another one, “This is illegal.”

“Not exactly,” Clarke had replied with carefully guarded amusement, watching as the new fabric slowly covered the stretch of his stomach, “And Octavia’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

Bellamy had sent her A Look, before rolling his eyes and bending over to tie his boots. )

Indra clears her throat, shaking Clarke from both the memory and also watching Bellamy’s scowling face to the left of her, “This is the first fire. We have five, for the five laws of the Woods Clan, and the five bonds between warriors,” the way she's looking specifically at Clarke and Bellamy is enough for her to know this speech is for their benefit, “Tonight, this is the smallest fire, for families and for seconds. It represents the importance of truth. We will go around, and speak our minds about the union of Octavia of the Sky People, and Lincoln of the Woods Clan. Here, and only here, may we voice our objections,” the corner of her lip tilts up, “And then, there is a feast.”

Indra dips her head, “As head of the Clan that will be adding a new member-“ Bellamy’s scowl grows, “-I will speak to the union first,” she looks once more at Octavia. And Clarke sees how the girl who chased after butterflies keeps her stare even with the Clan leader, her fingers tightly intertwined with Lincoln’s, “Octavia of the Sky People. You have saved my life. You have saved my son’s life. I voice no objections.”

Octavia smiles, “Thanks.”

Indra bows her head, then gestures across the fire to where Bellamy sits. “It is your turn.”

Bellamy’s arms are crossed over his chest. His lips are in a frown. And he stares at Lincoln.

And stares.

And stares.

Then he looks at Octavia.

And stares.

And stares.

“Bellamy,” Clarke mutters under her breath, resisting the urge to elbow him in the side.

He takes a deep breath.

And stares.

And Clarke does elbow him. Lightly. He jerks, looking at her with betrayal. Before his eyes crawl to the joined hands of his sister and the Grounder.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says between clenched teeth.

Clarke closes her eyes. And counts to ten. When she opens them, she's surprised to see a huge smile on Octavia’s face and tears running down her cheeks.

“Thank you, Bell,” she chokes out.

Clarke and Lincoln send each other similarly confused expressions.

 _Blakes,_ Clarke thinks with only mild exasperation. And she doesn’t believe she imagines Lincoln slowly nodding his head in agreement.

\--

“That was the worst speech I think I’ve ever heard.”

Bellamy sends her a sour look as the two walk back to the hut they're sharing while they visit, “Yours wasn’t much better.”

“What was wrong with mine?”

“ _Good job._ Really, Princess?”

Clarke smiles despite herself, hands burying in to the pockets of her coat. The two continue in companionable silence before she hesitantly reaches out and grabs his hand. He freezes, as if startled by the contact, but relaxes a little once their fingers are laced together.

She squeezes her grip, “Are you okay?”

Bellamy frowns, “Why wouldn’t I be okay.”

“You haven’t stopped scowling.”

He takes a long inhale, looking up at the stars. Clarke follows his gaze, and takes a certain amount of solace in the ever-constant blackness of space, “I,” he stops himself, shaking his head, “It’s hard, Clarke. Okay? It’s just. Hard.”

Clarke felt his hand grip hers harder in return. And she nods.

“Okay.”

\--

She’s not sure how long they stand like that.

 

**2.**

The next fire is for charity, and it, too, is just for seconds and family. Octavia and Clarke have some time alone before it, however. To enact yet another tradition.

And Clarke wants to hit something.

“Are you sure it’s supposed to-“

Clarke can almost hear Octavia rolling her eyes from where she sits in front of her, “ _Yes,_ Clarke. It’s like a-“ she frowns, “-a French braid. But with another layer.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Clarke grumbles as she tries to pin another braid into place behind Octavia’s ear. It holds, for about thirty seconds, before it slides free again, “-you’re sure it’s-“

“Clarke, just do what you can with it. Everyone’ll appreciate the effort.”

Clarke sighs, before she just does normal, old-fashioned braids instead. It looks halfway decent, and she winces, “I feel like I’m failing you as a second.”

The younger girl grins, craning her head back to look at Clarke’s face, “Don’t worry. Just protect me against rival clans during the last two ceremonies and we’ll be fine.”

Clarke frowns, concerned, “…does that usually happen.”

Octavia shrugs. A braid falls out. Damn it. “Not really. Marriages used to be mainly political, bridges between warring clans.”

“Isn’t that what this one is.”

Octavia smirks, “A little, I guess. But mostly, y’know. Love. And stuff.”

“And stuff.”

“I’m not good at the sensitive thing,” Octavia qualifies, turning her head forward as Clarke ties another braid. They’re silent for a few moments, before she clears her throat, “How’s Bell?”

“He’s fine.”

“How’s Bell _really._ ”

Clarke puts a pin in her mouth as she twists another piece of her hair (she has. So much. _Hair._ ) “He’s trying. I think he’s just working on the acceptance stage.”

“Right,” Octavia mutters, and Clarke hates that she can detect a note of sadness to her tone, “Just. Look after him, okay Clarke?”

She pins the last braid into place, “You’re getting married-“

“-Unified-“

“- _unified,_ Octavia. Not dying.”

She sighs, “I know. But I won’t be there to watch him, and to keep him from doing something stupid,” Clarke thinks she hears a slight sniffle, but Octavia’s voice is level and clear, “Idiot gets lost in the woods all the time.”

Clarke smiles, slow and a little bittersweet, “I’ll watch Bellamy for you,” she backs away, and Octavia is rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand, “I’m your second, remember?”

“Yeah,” Octavia returns the expression, “Thanks, Clarke.”

She thinks about the freckles across Bellamy’s cheeks. The dark, mussed quality to his hair. The way he came back to the camp, even when he wanted to run. How he put everyone first, even when he tried desperately not to act like he did.

“You don’t need to thank me, Octavia.”

\--

The fire for charity is a gift-giving ceremony. Indra exchanges with Octavia, Bellamy with Lincoln. And, as Octavia’s second, Clarke exchanges with Lincoln’s.

“It’s not much,” she says, as Nyko opens up the cloth roll.

But the healer smiles, lifting up one of the surgical steel needles and inspecting it as it catches the light, “This gift is honorable,” he answers simply.

Clarke opens the one from him, and is happily surprised to see the red, medicinal seaweed she remembers from so long ago, “Yours, too.”

“ _Bell_!” Octavia protests, and Clarke turns just in time to see her friend smack her brother on the arm.

Bellamy ignores her, smirk on his face and eyebrows raised in challenge as Lincoln looks at the gift he received.

In the Grounder’s hands is an antidote kit.

Clarke sighs.

But Lincoln only inclines his head.

“Your gift is honorable.”

Bellamy’s smirk fades a little, and Clarke is happy to see that he almost looks ashamed. He then opens the gift from Lincoln.

And Clarke can’t help but laugh.

Because from Lincoln, Bellamy receives a knife.

**3.**

The third and fourth ceremonies are for the village, and in this case, that means the rest of the so-called Sky People. Jasper, Monty, Raven, and a few others walk past the barricades of the village and look around with wide eyes.

Finn is a noticeable, but in this case welcomed, absence. One that Clarke doesn’t want to think too hard about.

“Loving the hair,” Raven says as she rolls in with a smile, nodding at the thin braids that both Clarke and Bellamy are sporting for the events.

“Don’t start,” Bellamy grumbles, but Clarke can see him fighting to hold down a grin.

Monty laughs, elbowing Jasper in the side, “Never thought this day would come, huh?”

Jasper, Clarke notices with no small amount of pity, looks torn somewhere between panicked and heartbroken, “Yeah, I guess.” He looks up and musters a little more enthusiasm, “Hi Clarke. Bellamy.”

He and Bellamy share a look that almost seems understanding, “Jasper.”

“Where’s Octavia?” Monty asks, craning his neck and searching the faces of the villagers.

“Special initiation tea or something,” Bellamy mutters, “With the warriors. They do this before the games.”

Raven raises an eyebrow, “Games? I’m guessing you don’t mean checkers.”

“Not exactly.”

\--

“I think we were missing out with the whole trying-to-kill-each-other thing,” Raven observes as she and Clarke sit together, the pair of them watching as two Grounders fight each other in a sparring match. Raven watches the muscles of the bare-shirted men strain and gives a low whistle of appreciation, “…I think the tattooed look might start working for me.”

Beside her, Clarke gives a small smile as she bites into the roast rabbit Lincoln’s house provided, “What about Wick?”

“What about him?”

“I thought…”

Raven rolls her eyes, speaking around a mouth full of rabbit as well, “Have you seen his face?”

“What’s wrong with his face?”

“I want to punch it. Seriously, like all the time.”

Clarke’s not sure why, but the thought makes her grin. She goes back to contently chewing on her rabbit and is oblivious to the games (sparring, something with a spear, running, and a few others—she was happy to see Monty and even Jasper participate in a few earlier in the day) until Raven elbows her in the side.

“Uh, Clarke?”

“Yes?”

“Is Bellamy supposed to be trying to pummel the brother-in-law?”

Clarke’s head snaps up, and sure enough the first two contenders have cleared the makeshift sparring circle in favor of Lincoln and Bellamy. Octavia is off somewhere with Monty and Jasper, and her absence makes Clarke almost nervous.

The two nod at each other. And Clarke recognizes the set of Bellamy’s jaw all too well when he moves to swing a punch.

\--

“You’re an idiot,” Clarke says, none-too-politely, as she presses cold water against the blossoming bruise underneath Bellamy’s eye.

“Why?” He gives a short hiss as she dabs away at the dried blood on top of the no doubt tender skin. The two of them are in their shared hut, and he’s sitting on storage box as she examines him. Stubborn ass.

“Picking fights at your sister’s wedding isn’t clear enough?”

“It’s part of the ceremony.”

“It was an excuse.”

Bellamy scoffs, and Clarke wrings out the cloth to clean around his mouth. When her fingers brush his lower, split lip, he tenses, “What’re you doing?” He asks. She’s not sure why, but Clarke thinks he almost sounds breathless, and she checks his nose once more for a break. There isn’t one. Strange. His inhale is still sharp.

She backs away to send him her most Level of looks, “Trying to reduce swelling so you don’t look like you got into a bar brawl at Octavia’s wedding.”

“Lincoln has bruises, too.”

“Not the point.”

Clarke dunks the cloth once more, “Okay, take your shirt off.”

“What?”

“Your shirt. I saw him hit your side. I want to make sure nothing’s broken.”

“…Whatever you say, Princess.”

Bellamy tugs it off, and Clarke trails her fingers along the seams of his ribs, gently prodding for breaks or fractures. His breathing comes in short again, and that makes her frown. She retraces her movements, double checking to make sure nothing’s interfered with his lungs.

“Clarke,” he mutters.

“Yes?”

“My ribs are fine.”

“I’m almost done.”

“My _ribs_ are _fine_ , Princess.”

She backs off, spreading her hands in surrender, “If you insist.”

“I do. It’s alright.”

Clarke shakes her head, “It’s not alright.”

Bellamy looks up at her from where he sits, “What are you talking about?”

She rolls her shoulders, “Is it Lincoln?”

“What?”

“Lincoln. Is that what this is about?”

Bellamy frowns. And stars help her, she thinks he actually looks confused, “What what’s about?”

Clarke crosses her arms. Raises an eyebrow.

And he looks down at the floor, “It’s not Lincoln.”

“Then what is it?”

Bellamy lets go of a long, low breath. His shoulders slump. And Clarke thinks for once the secret troubles he’s been carrying around are finally shown on his face.

“She’s leaving,” he finally confesses, quiet and defeated. “When this is all done, she’s not coming back with us.”

Clarke swallows, and her hands move of their own accord as she stands in front of him and cups his face, “Octavia loves him.”

His jaw clenches, “Yeah. I get it.”

“She loves you, too.”

Bellamy closes his eyes, “I know.”

“And we’ll all be okay.”

He doesn’t say anything, so Clarke moves her hands from his cheeks to around his shoulders. He hesitates, before he wraps his arms around her waist and presses his face against her stomach.

“She’s all I got, Clarke.”

She threads a hand through his hair, “No, Bellamy. She’s not.”

 

**4.**

The fourth fire is a celebration, and, much like Lincoln’s house provided the rabbit during the games, Monty distributes his moonshine to both Sky People and Grounder alike. The bonfire is towered high, and warm, and the entire village is there to toast and welcome their newest member.

Octavia looks beautiful, the clothes of the Grounders seeming to fit her better than the flight suit, and it’s strange to see the blatant adoration on Lincoln’s face as he leads her out for the first dance of the bonfire. A few of the villagers start playing instruments, drums and what look like guitars and lutes, as Lincoln guides her through the steps. At first, Octavia moves awkwardly, unaccustomed to the music or the tempo, but by the third or fourth dance together she is nearly matching Lincoln in fluidity.

“She’s only been to one other dance,” Bellamy mutters to her side.

Clarke turns to him with a questioning look. They are among the few Sky People sitting on the sidelines, as Monty finds himself surrounded by Grounder women and Jasper and Raven try to fumble through a few of the steps together, the both of them too drunk to realize they’re making their own rhythm at this point.

Clarke’s not sure if the comment necessitated a response, so she only nods and takes another drink of Monty’s moonshine. It’s strong. Stronger than usual, and explains why the producer in question is attempting a dance move that she remembers being called the Macerana in the history archives. The women he’s dancing with seem impressed by it enough.

“She’s eighteen,” he says, and the slur to his voice is enough for Clarke to understand that he’s drunk.

“It’s legal, Bellamy,” Clarke replies with a groan.

“Not that, Princess,” he clarifies, taking a sip of his own drink. Lincoln picks Octavia up and spins her around and she laughs and Clarke sees, for the first time, a smile on Bellamy’s face, “I just. Never thought she’d get to eighteen.”

Clarke looks at his profile intently. Sees the way his eyes squint, just a little, though she’s not sure if it’s from the heat of the fire or the repressing of tears. She’s only seen him vulnerable like this once before, after they went to the bunker.

And she clears her throat, raising the wooden cup, “Then here’s to nineteen.”

Bellamy turns to her, and when he stares at her like that she wonders what it is that he’s trying to look for in her. Wonders what it is that he sees. He clears his throat (it was tears) and mimics the gesture, “To O.”

They clink glasses. And take long drinks. His arm slings over her shoulder, and Clarke leans into him as they watch the festivities in silence.

Monty, it turns out, is also very skilled at the robot.

\--

An hour or so later, they’re both on their way to inebriated, and Octavia has found their hiding spot. She’s breathless, eyes wide and mouth smiling as she grabs a hand from each of them.

“ _Up,_ Bell,” she orders, digging her feet into the ground and using her small frame as leverage to prop both her brother and her second into a standing position.

“I’m _sitting_ O,” he protests, but he peels himself off the ground and Clarke follows him.

“ _This_ is my _wedding,_ ” the younger Blake says pointedly, “And my _brother_ is going to _dance_ at my _wedding_.”

“It’s a unity ceremony-“ Bellamy protests.

“You gave Lincoln a broken nose. You owe me.”

Bellamy sways a little, and Clarke’s starting to feel like a glorified armrest as he leans into her for support.

“Stop smirking, Bell!”

Clarke laughs, and Octavia’s ire is turned to her at the sound, “And _you’re_ supposed to be my second.”

The blonde blinks, “I thought I was just supposed to fight enemy clans-“

“This is my tradition. And at my wedding- (“Unity ceremony,” Bellamy drawls) -my second? Dances.” Octavia’s gaze moves slowly from Clarke, to Bellamy, and to the arm he still has around her. And she smiles, “Maybe you two should dance together.”

“No-“ Clarke starts.

“-Okay,” Bellamy finishes.

Clarke sends him a curious look, and Bellamy only looks uncomfortable for a second before he shrugs.

“…It’s my sister’s wedding.”

And Clarke smiles for a reason she can’t explain, before she nods, “It’s your sister’s wedding.”

He grabs her hand, leads her to the fire, and both of them miss the conspiring smirk on Octavia’s lips.

\--

He’s a better dancer than she is. But he shrugs off Clarke stepping on his toes for the hundredth time in order to pull her closer to him.

It’s been an hour, or two, or ten minutes (it’s hard to tell with four glasses of moonshine), when he rests his forehead against her own. The music is set to a faster pace than what they’re moving, but neither seem to mind as she wraps her arms around his neck and he runs a thumb over her cheek bone.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, voice strained.

“I won’t,” she promises.

Clarke remembers looking at the sky, at the blue-black that hugged the space between the stars and the curls of smoke that covered the air, when Bellamy finally leans down to kiss her. His fingers bury into her hair, and she rests her hand over the quick beating of his heart.

\--

“I think I love you,” he slurs when he pulls back.

Clarke pauses, nods, and goes on her tiptoes to kiss him again.

\--

It doesn’t go further than that, but the next morning, Clarke wakes up with his arm wrapped around her waist and his face nuzzled into her neck.

Neither feel the need to talk about it, the transition as smooth and easy as a river running over stones.

 

 **5.**  

The final fire is, once again, only for family and seconds. And it’s the fire of loyalty.

Unlike the last ceremonies, this one is far more intimate and personal, Clarke sits on the far side of the hut where they are hosting it, next to Indra.

“We are humbled by your generosity,” the leader of the clan says, following Clarke’s gaze to where the two Blake siblings are talking to each other, both watery eyed before they exchange an embrace that’s fiercer than any she’s seen Bellamy give before.

“What do you mean?” Clarke asks.

“I understand that family is rare, with your people,” Indra continues, turning her head to her son, who sits kneeling in front of Nyko with a look of pure contentment, “It is no small sacrifice to give one of your own to another Clan.”

Clarke looks at Octavia, then to Bellamy. And she makes a short nod, “Thank you,” and, because she doesn’t feel comfortable leaving it at that, “Take care of her.”

Indra inclines her head, and goes to speak before Bellamy joins them. He sits next to Clarke without thinking, reaching over and grabbing her hand. He doesn’t say anything, his gaze trained ahead as Octavia moves to sit next to her _Kreig Ehn_ in front of the healer.

Together, the three of them watch as Nyko brings out a bowl of ink and a bone-needle, says the ceremonial words of his people, and draws matching tattoos around both Octavia and Lincoln’s arms. In the silence of the tent, Clarke’s overly aware of the low glow of the simmering fire, the soft sound of the needle moving as ink permanently stains their skin, and the heavy, warm anchor of Bellamy’s fingers in her own. Clarke watches as Octavia and Lincoln join their hands, and are unable to look away from each other despite the pain they must be feeling.

It’s beautiful in its simplicity.

When it’s over, Nyko lifts his head.

“ _Hert kai in mutkalilk_.”

Clarke feels herself beginning to tear up as she asks Indra, “What’s it mean?”

The Grounder woman is reserved as usual, but there is a softness to her features, “In our hearts, we find our courage.”

Bellamy squeezes her hand, and Clarke looks up to see that he’s also watery-eyed. But he manages to smile. And Clarke manages to match it.


End file.
